Merlot and Godot

“There’s time to get a glass of wine first, if you want,” he offers as he holds the door open for her.

“Sure, that sounds good. I’m surprised a small theatre like this has a lounge. How city-like!”

“Well, it’s really just a small hall that doubles as a one-room art gallery with a bar kiosk at the back.” He shrugs and gestures toward an interior doorway, a few yards inside the main entrance.

Even before entering, they can see a line halfway across the room, culminating at a short counter where wine is being slowly doled out. “I’ll get in line and you can peruse the art, if you like.” He’s out of practice at dating, so he hopes his tone implies gallant and chivalrous, not condescending or patronizing. He slides his eyes from the line-up to her face.

She’s nodding and smiling. “Nice of you to offer! I’d like a glass of red, please, preferably a Cab or Cab blend.” They stroll off in opposite directions.

Armed with two glasses of red wine, he eventually finds her in a corner at the rear of the room, staring at a painting of a person, presumably. “Perhaps the artist was trying to channel Picasso,” he suggests, extending a glass her way.

“If so, he or she has failed miserably!” She takes the glass but doesn’t sip. She folds her left arm across her abdomen and uses that hand as a platform for her right elbow. Balancing her wine glass in her elevated right hand, she tilts her head to one side, than the other. “The attempt at abstract is forgivable but the abuse of colour is not. It’s absolutely atrocious.”

“Um, you know this is a display by the local high school art class, right?”

She blinks at him. “Of course. I’m sure all their half-blind grandparents are inordinately proud.”

Is she trying to be witty? In order not to gape at her, he steps sideways and positions himself in front of a pastoral scene depicting a barn at the edge of a field. “I like the composition in this one,” he says genially.

“Hmm. Yes, the composition is reasonable but the perspective is off. And, the artist didn’t really have a clear sense of where the light was coming from. See how the shadow of the barn is skewed at the base.” She points with her glass.

He takes another step to his left, aligning himself with a misty lake. “This one really says Muskoka, I think.” He pointedly keeps his voice light and upbeat.

“Yes, perfectly ubiquitous. I suppose that was the goal.” Again, she cocks her head from side to side, assessing further.

Taking a sip of wine, he struggles to discern an appropriate response. “Well, there are a lot of lakes around here.” As it comes out, he knows it sounds lame, so he gulps some more wine. He’s facing the painting but, out of the corner of his right eye, he can see she’s still holding up her glass in that cavalier, precarious way.

“Well, there are a lot of lake paintings around here, too,” she responds, turning away from the painting in question to scan the room. “However, most of these young artists should probably become accountants.” As if to punctuate her statement, she finally raises her glass to her lips and sips.

He can see that she’s holding the wine in her mouth, presumably rolling it around on her tongue. Perhaps she’s trying to determine if it has a fruity note, or something like that; he was never enough of a connoisseur to understand the nuances of wine tasting. As he watches, her initially perplexed expression changes to a grimace. She appears to be struggling to swallow. He’s instantly solicitous. “Are you okay?”

With pointed effort, she finishes swallowing. “This is Merlot.”

“Yes.” He hesitates, recalling their earlier conversation. “Right! You said you preferred Cabernet but, by the time I got to the counter, they were out. Merlot was all they had left.”

“I see.” She regards her glass skeptically. “I haven’t had Merlot since I saw the movie Sideways.”

“Oh?”

“You know, a couple of guys go on a wine tour in California and one of them absolutely abhors Merlot. He literally freaks out and tosses F-bombs every time it’s served, or even mentioned. The flick’s a cult classic!”

“A comedy?”

“Yes. Very funny.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye out for it, I guess.” Before he can come up with another comment or question, the lights flick off and on. “Looks like they want us to head into the theatre now.” Saved by the bell, he thinks as he finds a spot to set down his empty wineglass.

“Saved by the bell,” she says blithely, placing her full glass next to his.

“I actually like Merlot.” His voice is soft but firm. He doesn’t need to look at her; he can feel her stiffen beside him. He quickly introduces a new topic. “You’re probably familiar with the play Waiting for Godot. Well, our little local theatre group has put a bit of a spin on it to make it more Muskoka-themed and add some humour.”

“I see.”

“It’s set at a hunt camp on an island.”

“Oh, joy. A community theatre troupe reworks a classic that plods along in experienced hands, and they’ve added funny hunters. I can’t imagine anything more nail-pullingly divine!”

He looks at her. She’s beautiful in a way that suggests effort, expense and plenty of pampering. If her job hadn’t required it, would she have even deigned to set foot in this rural area? He decides not to ask. In fact, in that moment, he decides not to ask her anything ever again. He’s definitely not going to ask her out for a second date.

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